


London Day

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 21:29:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sherlock goes for as long as he can between these days, and not just because being dead in the most surveilled city on the planet is rather risky, but because it hurts so much." - Sherlock returns to London to visit a few friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	London Day

Sherlock dresses more slowly these days, partly because he has nothing to do, partly because he detests what he is wearing. In a world where everyone knew of Sherlock Holmes as a well dressed man in a shirt and a very nice coat, he’s had to change his style. Wearily he tugs on a pair of blue jeans, a thin t-shirt, a fine knit jumper with a hood. He does his hair, it’s short now and needs doing, he slicks it forward with gel that feels tacky on his fingers, and as he looks into the mirror he notes again just how young he looks. Just another twenty-something, disillusioned with the world.  
And on other days he might sink on to the couch in the black depression that has marked so much of his “dead time” - he doesn’t throw himself anymore, no one to impress with just how bad he feels. But he doesn’t, because today is an important day.  
It’s a London day.

He goes for as long as he can between these days, and not just because being dead in the most surveilled city on the planet is rather risky, but because it hurts so much. The city has its own heart, it’s own personality, and it was almost a companion to him for years; knows him better than almost anyone.  
Of course, the pain is not just in the streets, but the people Sherlock knows he’ll find there.

His first appointment is with Lestrade. He shadows the former-DI through the streets round the posh houses of Kensington. Lestrade is kitted out in a uniform which doesn’t suit him, stab vest not quite making up for the bulk he lost since the inquest, the demotion. Sherlock watches him as he talks to the very green probationary constable next to him, telling her about watching everything, trying to catalogue as much of her territory in her head, so she’ll notice when anything is out of place. The gentleness behind Lestrade’s gruff voice triggers a string of memories in Sherlock’s head, the feeling of being saved the very first time, of not having his past held against him.  
Sherlock pulls his hood up and turns away the second before Lestrade flicks his head around to look at him.

Next he goes to visit Mrs Hudson. He watches as she wanders round Tesco, basket over her arm, mumbling to herself occasionally. He is shocked at how old she looks, how much she has aged since they last spoke, even since his last London Day five months ago. She seems smaller and frailer, the wonderful energy that turned Baker Street from messy flat to warm home has been all but drained away.  
Sherlock spies on her as she picks up a packet of chocolate Hob-Nobs, regards them for a moment and slowly puts them back. He swallows hard. John and Mrs Hudson both prefer jammie dodgers. He was the only one they bought hob-nobs for.

Sherlock has lunch with Molly. His ID cards all say Thomas Wilson these days, and Molly’s given him the appalling appellation “Tommy”.  
Molly looks older too these days, there are a few streaks of silver in her hair, but it suits her. She looks more focused, harder. The soft little girl who asked Sherlock out for a drink is long gone.  
“Tommy, you haven’t been eating properly.” She watches Sherlock play with his curry.  
“I’ve been eating enough.”  
“I can see all your vertebrae through your t-shirt. You think John would want you to starve yourself to death?”  
“Well I doubt it would make much difference, as he thinks I’m dead already.” Sherlock slams his fork down on the table and Molly flinches. He feels furious for a moment before the anger drains away, leaving behind only the raw pain that hasn’t dulled, not even a little.  
Molly reaches out to touch his hand and murmurs. “I’m sorry, Sherlock.”  
“Tommy.” He replies. They finish their lunch in silence.

Late in the afternoon Sherlock can put it off no longer. He goes to the surgery in Hounslow where Dr John Watson is working part time, to stand across the road and watch, just for a minute or two.  
Seeing John is always unbelievably painful. Not just because John looks so pale, so drawn; a man far to young to be leaning so heavily against that cane. No, all those are like a punch to the chest, but what rips his heart out is how much he misses John. How much he needs him, his company. He misses making stupid jokes and sniggering, he misses John’s little exclamations of “that is brilliant!” he even misses John calling him a berk and yelling that he can make his own bloody toast. He misses every single part of his life with John and it’s only by gripping his wrist so tightly the bones grind that he manages to keep the tears from dripping down his face.  
He watches John limp from the door of the surgery, fifty yards down the road to a taxi rank, and get in a cab. That’s it. That’s enough.

As Sherlock boards the train, going north, going away from London, he looks round to find a CCTV camera. He flicks his eyes to it, and gives a tiny wave. He can only hope Mycroft is watching.


End file.
